Rising Vengeance (The Anarian Chronicles Book 1)

by Stephen Trolly

  “You thought that the Crystal Sword was commanded by a man. It was. I was your brother-in-law’s second in command.”

  “So, Danoth is dead.”

  “As is your sister. They were found dead almost two weeks ago. I’m sorry. We know that they were murdered, but how it was done was cruel beyond anything that Morschen dungeon masters could come up with.” Gelinia went into morbid detail, understanding that Taren wanted to know what she meant.

  Taren shuddered. He could only imagine what the wounds she described would really look like. That the Deshika had captured them was beyond doubt, but the barbaric precision was something that the Deshika did not have. He assumed that they could torture anyone, but they would not understand the differences in a Morschen and a Deshik body aside from the obvious. So, he assumed that it had been done by Morschen traitors, or worse. That it was the work even of one of the Seven Devils may have been possible. Vorteez sprang to mind. Taren had had his suspicions about The Kindler’s dungeon master since the battle of Airachni. “I am glad, almost, that they died before Makret’s betrayal. Anyana would never have let me live that down. She despised the Ringless, even those among the Morschen. I do too, sometimes, but Makret … He saved my life. And then a Ring that had refused a bearer for nearly two millennia chose him. The Ring that, strangely enough, is the brother of my own,” he looked down at the silver circle, set with sapphires all around the band, so that it looked like a river between silver shores, “which had also denied many would be bearers.”

  Suddenly, a new voice, one Taren had hoped to hear again, but had known until then that he would not, shouted his name. “Morschcoda Garrenin.”

  Taren turned, angry and pleased, to face Edya Reeshnar and Erygan Dalrey.

  “Taren.” The pale Morschcoda nodded as he walked up to his shorter friend.

  “Erygan, I said …”

  “I know what you said Taren, but your General Reeshnar had different feelings on the matter, and refused to stand by while her liege lord was, for lack of a better word, dying.”

  “I’m not dying, although I feel like I should be dead by now” he said, as he leaned against the inner wall of the gate. “Since you’ve ignored me one last time, Erygan, you might as well make it for a good reason. I was going to attempt to order General Eshtarin to take those she could through the caves to escape the destruction of this city, but now, you can get them out.”

  “I didn’t come here to leave you alone.”

  “Erygan, you know as well as I do that I must fight Makret. It is the real reason that this battle drags on. He and I both know that soon it will have to come down to a fight of our own. You alone here have felt the true extent of my powers. Makret’s are similar, almost identical in fact. If, when, the two of us unleash our powers on each other, this city will not survive.”

  “Taren, two men can’t destroy an entire city.” Edya looked up at the three older Morschen and lost confidence in that statement. “Can they?”

  “Edya, if Makret and Taren combined their powers, they could drown El Redro Delshoi.”

  She looked up in surprise that Erygan chose to use her first name. Though it was not the first time he had done so, it still surprised her. “That must be an exaggeration.”

  “A small one.” Taren answered. “We could, one island at a time, maybe.”

  The four stood silent for a time as night fell over northern Anaria. The cold that had settled into Taren’s bones grew ever colder, slowly robbing him of feeling in his legs. His armor weighed heavier on him than it had four days ago, but he dared not take it off, possibly needing it at a moment’s notice.

  “Edya” Taren broke the silence. “This is the last order I will ever give. Send messages to all the Morschcoda that Taren Garrenin has fallen. You should go yourself, if you can.” Turning to Erygan, he added mentally, ‘help her deal with the Mordak Council. They are dangerous when divided, and they will be. With Makret a traitor and me dead, Ren and the four territorial governors will be more powerful than the military advisors. A Morschcoda will have to be named soon, if Drogoda is going to hold together.’

  ‘But who is your heir? Someone must take over the rule of Anaria from you.’

  ‘You will have to open El Kardi Morschcoda. It explains more than I can.’

  ‘Marrdin took the book to Dorok-Baan, to give into Kallin’s keeping.’

  ‘Good. Kallin knows how to read the book. I only ask that when you read what has been written by me or on my behalf, you remember that I did what I did for many reasons, though I never said many of them. There are many things in that book that, had the enchantments that impregnate it allowed, wouldn’t be part of it, or would be written differently.’

  ‘If there is anything in the book that makes us think less of you, it would be forgiven because of this final act, Taren.’

  ‘Wait until you have read what there is to read, old friend.’ He spoke again. “Now, you must go, and General Eshtarin, you and yours must go also.”

  There was a cold gleam in Erygan’s eyes, and he shot a glance at the tall Ristan woman, as he heard the name Taren used, but he said nothing. All three turned away from Taren, but Edya turned back. She looked as though she was trying to say something, but instead, she ran at Taren and threw her arms around him. Refusing to let go for several long minutes, when she finally started to let go, Taren hugged her tighter, not wanting to end that one last moment of peace.

  “I would never have dared to do that a week ago,” she said when she finally broke away from him. “But I thought that, since you are going to be dying soon, well,”

  “I understand, Edya. Now I almost wish that there was somewhere that I could go, some direction that would not end pointed at Makret, here at the top of the world.”

  “Good bye, Taren.”

  With that, she stepped through the portal Erygan had opened.

  Fall of the Warship

  Taren walked slowly through the now deserted city of Agrista. Only hours ago, it had been full of the twanging of bow strings, the clash of swords, the sound of rushing water as Taren called his elemental powers to bear on the Deshika. Now, a drop of water falling from a fountain to hit the paving stones of a street on the northern edge of the city carried its sound clearly to Taren’s ears. He knew well what had to be done, and it was not fear that held him off. He knew that of the two of them, Makret and himself, he was the deadlier when it came to the blade. No, it was something else. A sense of impending doom had settled on him, as though this one act that he alone could accomplish would decide the course of the future. Even with that sense, he could not help but believe that the future could only go one way. Agrista, one way or another, would be his grave. He thought that fitting. The Garrenin line, though of Drogodan blood, had strong ties to the northern country. It was thought to have died out in Rista with the fall of Garisha and the High Kings and Queens. And now, with Anyana dead, Elich would soon be the last Drog Trueblood Garrenin. ‘No, he won’t be.’ Taren did not know why he kept forgetting about his brother’s death. Elich had defied his orders and marched against El Darnen, tired of how the Serpent kept raiding his lands in Morieden Province. Elich was almost two years dead. And now, Taren was finally ready for the same thing. Marching to the gate, he readied himself for what would be his last fight.

  “Makret!” His voice echoed through the deserted city behind him, and the rocky, ice covered landscape in front of him reverberated with the force of his yell. Mere sound had not shaken that foreboding tundra in centuries. One voice had never done it alone. He yelled Makret’s name once more, to be sure his once friend had heard him. “Makret, come and fight me yourself. We both know what must be. I will wait for you in the throne room of the palace of Agrista. If you have not come in two days, I will come for you.”

  * * * * *

  Makret sat in his tent. He knew that he could not turn down the challenge. Nor could he deny hearing it, not when every warrior still living had rushed out of their tents, hurriedly donning armo
ur, at the sound, the unbridled power, of Taren’s voice. He had known all along that the battle for Agrista would come down to him and Taren. And if he did refuse to fight, Taren would enter the camp. The Deshik army was still many thousands strong, but the powers Taren would unleash upon the camp once in range of it, not even Makret could fully comprehend. That was why his camp was almost three miles from the walls of Agrista. It was why opposing camps of Morschen armies had to be almost four miles apart. Ringlords could rip their enemies apart before the battle even started if they were within that three mile range. Even a strong Ringlord like Taren had a limit of three miles or maybe a little more, for most powers at least. If Makret was willing to risk killing himself, he thought he might be able to stretch his powers from where he sat to perhaps two roads into the city. “That would be a half of a league. Three miles exactly. And it would still not kill him, though it would be pushing my strength.”

  Almost an hour later, Makret still had not prepared to face Taren. But he was making his plan. And then something went wrong. Makret felt it before any of his senses could warn him. He could feel the way that Black Power gathered wherever The Kindler went. Almost as soon as he felt it start to pool behind him, he turned and fell on his left knee. He almost exclusively bowed with his right knee, because the only person he ever bowed to, and even then infrequently, was Taren, who before his treachery, he would never have drawn a sword on. He bowed with his left to The Kindler because, even though he would die slowly and painfully, his left leg would then not be in the way of drawing his sword if he decided to attack his new master.

  “Rise, Morschledu.” The Kindler’s voice was as black as the magic he wielded.

  Makret, though bidden to rise, did not yet stand. “My master, I did not expect your return so soon.”

  “Clearly, otherwise the city would already be mine.”

  “There were five thousand Morschen to deal with when we got here, and more that were not expected. A large number of the Black Guard came to support the city, and though we took the Dragon Hearted by surprise, their name is well earned, and many times over.”

  “I do not want excuses. Especially excuses almost a week old. I know that only one man stands between me and the capture of this city.”

  “My lord, how can you? It was hidden even from the War Chiefs here until only earlier today that the few who were with him had departed the city, and we are barely half a league from the gates.”

  “I have other spies among your race, Makret Druoth. And I have other means of gathering information. I am most … displeased, at your lack of progress here.” Makret knew better than to try to defend himself. “Over ten thousand killed and wounded, and two of the original seven War Chiefs killed with them, by three hundred, only one of which they actually saw. Explain yourself.”

  Makret now stood up. He was playing a dangerous game already, so if he had to, he wanted to be able to move freely. “My lord, one of the War Chiefs made the mistake of referring to that one man as a human. He holds humans in almost as much contempt as he does the Deshika, he is powerful like no Morschledu has been for many thousands of years, and he was a Morschcoda, and now he is King of most of Anaria. That one man, who stood alone in the gate against our forces day after day, is Taren Garrenin the Second. If I have displeased you, lord, then by any god there ever has been, I have an excuse no being can dispute.”

  “You are arrogant, puny mortal, to think to tell me what I can and cannot argue.”

  “Then kill me and find another general.”

  For the first time, Makret looked The Kindler in the eyes. They were black, even where they should have been white, and the only sign of a pupil was a small ring around it: a ring of blood red that burned like fire. The eyes tried to crush him, to blot him out of existence by sheer force of will, but Makret refused to let them. In every way as stubborn and arrogant as Taren was, Makret refused to be pushed around, even by one of the Seven Devils.

  “I see you are stubborn as well as arrogant, but your arrogance, at least, is well founded. Keep your life.” Makret said nothing, swaying slightly as the eyes released him, knowing he had just cheated death. He was not confident of duplicating the feat. “The lesson of silence is learned,” The Kindler mocked him. “Now, tell me your plan, if you have one.”

  Makret was not of the same caliber as Taren where drinking was concerned, but he had understood Taren’s need for the fortification of alcohol, on occasion. He felt that this would have been one of the times where a retreat to the bottle could be excused, but unlike Taren, he had never kept a flask on his person. So he simply answered The Kindler. “Garrenin has challenged me to single combat inside the city. I am choosing to accept.”

  “And if you fail?”

  “Then you will owe Taren Garrenin a favor for ridding you of me.” Before The Kindler could respond, Makret went on. “The palace should be surrounded, then if Garrenin does kill me, he will not escape the city alive.”

  “Why do I not just have Deshik archers kill him while he is fighting you?”

  “I don’t trust Deshik archers to hit what they aim for. They are poorly supplied with crude weapons, and those that seem to understand how to use a bow lack the skills to hit a stationary target outside of one hundred paces more than five times out of twenty.”

  “So you will fight … What did you say his name was?”

  “Garrenin. Taren Garrenin.” The Kindler tensed, and turned back towards Makret. His dark eyes flashed red for a moment. His nostrils flared as a horse’s. Something close to fear, and far beyond hatred, entered those same eyes that had just tried to end Makret’s existence.

  “So it is true.” It came out as a whisper; a terrifying, dark whisper that barely escaped The Kindler’s too white teeth.

  “My lord, what is it?”

  “The same man cannot still walk in the circles of the world. I killed him long ago.”

  “Garrenin?”

  “Taren Garrenin. The Torridestan whelp may have been the last to stand, and the one who struck the blow that banished me from the world, but it was the Garrenin that caused my defeat.”

  “My lord?” Makret’s voice continued to be ignored.

  “Curse Lasheed for all of eternity for that final act. He created you, the Morschen, as nothing more than weapons to use against my brethren and me. We were winning that war, and we would have won fully and completely, had not Lasheed created your kin. I remember Garrenin, bursting into existence fully formed, already a deadly sword master, bearing one of those cursed rings and a blue blade that he wielded with all the wrath of the oceans themselves. Two of the Seven fell that day to his sword, which Lasheed himself soon named Donkar-Hesta.”

  “Death to Hell.” The Kindler noticed his voice that time.

  “The name was well earned. That blade claimed four of the Seven, and it tasted my blood more than once. We retreated to regroup. When we attacked again, there were far more; weapons, all of them, and nothing more. Not all men either. Women fought us, often more dangerous than any two of their male kindred, except for Garrenin.”

  “Then the sooner Garrenin is dead, the sooner we can win this war.”

  The Kindler’s black eyes with their rings of flaming blood took hold of Makret’s one more time. “Though that is truly spoken, I do not wish to reveal myself to our enemy. Not yet.”

  Makret was silent. “I can defeat Garrenin. Outright victory with him dead is unlikely, he is more skillful, but I can better him when it matters.”

  “What do you need?”

  “I need the War Chiefs to secure the city. Not our whole force, but enough to ensure that no one can get in and Garrenin cannot get out.”

  “You will have that, at least, Morschledu.”

  * * * * *

  Taren sat for the first time in days. The throne of Rista was not overly comfortable, and extremely cold, being nothing more than a carved block of ice with a seat covered with the white fur of some ice loving animal, but at that moment, to simply sit
was a wonderful sensation. He heard the horns, the sound of Deshik shouts, War Chiefs yelling orders in their grotesque language. None of that mattered. “Only one thing matters now, for one way or another, Taren Garrenin the Second dies this day,” he thought out loud, his voice echoing in the lofty hall, as he considered the long, unbroken lineage of House Garrenin, starting and now ending with a warrior king named Taren. He stayed sitting as Makret marched into the throne room, flanked by four War Chiefs. He did not move or otherwise acknowledge them until the five stopped halfway to the throne where he sat.

  “So you came, Makret.”

  “I came.” The response was cold, though Taren was not surprised by that. It merely saddened him. “Will you surrender?”

  “Would you, were you in my place? Oh wait. You already did.” Taren poured as much hatred and contempt into those three words as he possibly could.

  “You had your chance to choose the winning side, Taren.”

  “Yes, and I did. You lost how many thousands trying to take this city from me alone? And how many more cities, how many more last stands of the Morschen must you face before Anaria lies at The Kindler’s feet? And what will you get from it? The rule of Drogoda? You were promised that many times before this, Makret Druoth.”

  “My reasons are my own, Taren, as they ever have been. I paid my debts to you long ago, and now, I alone have the pleasure of ending the line of House Garrenin. Too long has its reign been.”

  Taren stood, and walked down the short steps of the dais. Makret did not move, and even then only to shift to a more battle ready position, until Taren stood a bare ten feet from him.

  Taren stopped, and looked his enemy up and down. Makret still wore the armour of Drogoda, the silver spear broach still pinned to his shoulder. “This meeting was always destined. I chose my own worst enemy the day I saved your head from the gallows, Makret.”